


pièce de résistance

by tawnyPort



Series: HSWC 2013 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Homestuck Shipping World Cup, M/M, Quadrant Vacillation, my string of pretentious titles continues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawnyPort/pseuds/tawnyPort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were times you weren't entirely sure he was invested in the quadrant you shared, that it was all just a source of amusement to him, watching you get so overclocked and knowing you'd never so much as land a punch thanks to his mutant brain. He kept himself just far enough removed that you could never be certain. The deck was always slippery, the ship pitching as if to cast you off, and he demanded nothing but your best, most focused efforts to let you feel even weakly lashed down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pièce de résistance

**Author's Note:**

> For [HSWC Bonus Round 1](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/3493.html?thread=383397#cmt383397): "I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other." -Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_.
> 
>  
> 
> _The pièce de résistance can be thought of as the portion of a creation which defies (i.e. "resists") orthodox or common conventions and practices, thereby making the whole of the creation unique and special._

It started out as just another level of black flirtation.

You hated him desperately. You never hated Vriska like this. You hated him like drowning; it filled all your senses and choked you, drove you to gagging and sputtering until you remembered you had another way to breathe. You hated him so much you literally saw red swimming in front of your eyes. You'd thought that was a literary exaggeration until he'd remotely hacked into your computer and sent Kan, Kar, and Fef a series of personal Trollian logs wherein you complained to each of them about the others in turn. Perfectly normal conversations to anyone but the most docile of trolls, surely, but he'd decided they needed to be shared, thus depriving you of anything resembling pale attention for at least a couple of weeks. That lowblood lisping sedentary asshole.

None of them were particularly hurt or even surprised but somehow that made it worse. He knew other people already disliked you so much that he could do something like that, reach in and betray the trust you inherently placed in the privacy of one on one communication, and know it would do so little permanent damage to any of those relationships (because you yourself had already messed them up so badly) that you could only interpret it as a black gesture.

The worst part by far was how powerless it left you feeling. You were Eridan Ampora, descendant of Orphaner Dualscar, owner of Ahab's Crosshairs, terror of both sky and sea, royalty beyond impeachment, and you were powerless before this invasion. You couldn't do anything remotely like that to him. You weren't interested in computers beyond their basic utilitarian functions and no matter how much he tried to convince you that this was a basic utilitarian function, you weren't buying it. That put you at a disadvantage when it came to retaliation, however, that you weren't immediately certain how to overcome. Besides, anybody close enough to him to be wounded by a disclosure like those chat logs also knew there was no one Sol hated as much as Sol hated Sol. Showing them a log of him whining would just elicit sympathy at best and pity at worst.

And that's when it hit you. Pity.

There were times you weren't entirely sure he was invested in the quadrant you shared, that it was all just a source of amusement to him, watching you get so overclocked and knowing you'd never so much as land a punch thanks to his mutant brain. He kept himself just far enough removed that you could never be certain, never experience the sense of solid ground you had with Vris. The deck was always slippery, the ship pitching as if to cast you off, and he demanded nothing but your best, most focused efforts to let you feel even weakly lashed down.

Well. You felt like he demanded them. It was the only thing that gave you a trace of security, throwing yourself horns to heels into this hatemance. God forbid he should extend a little appreciation for the hours of planning that went into your dates, your confrontations, your assaults. No, his full range of reactions went only from complete apathy, waiting with barely present tolerance for you to be done, to smug triumph when you were finally forced to relent. He never fucking caved because he didn't fucking care. The casual way he hated you back wasn't satisfying.

If there was one thing Sol guarded himself against more than the intensity of a pitch relationship, however, it was the giddy heights of the flushed quadrant. You knew better than to ask about Ara but, despite overtures from a couple of quarters, his red quadrant stayed staunchly open. You thought he might have some kind of arrangement with Ter for when the drones came--rails with pails wasn't completely unheard of, especially in times of desperation, and they were both practical people, nothing there to get jealous over, an arrangement like that--until you saw on Trollbook that the mighty Legislacerator had apparently fallen for the retarded cavedwelling catgirl. You'd thought so much better of her than that but then again, if she flipped with Vris then she'd need a new pitchmate so better something than nothing. Setting aside Ter's shockingly bad taste in partners, this development meant Sol was still without prospects for flush fulfillment.

Somebody without prospects was always an opportunity.

You started slowly, schooling yourself carefully to not rise to his bait when he shrugged you off. Rather than letting yourself explode at him, you just leaned back and sighed, shaking your head and softening your eyes. Poor Sol. So closed off, so disinterested in even the best thing to even happen to his sorry quads. What a shame. How pathetic.

From there you moved on to more overt gestures. Instead of stealing all his grubs or destroying his furniture the next time you broke into his hive, you cooked for him, completely free of poisons, even low level ones, and put it in the hull to reheat when he felt like it. You exchanged his cheap generic energy drinks for the high end name brand ones. You took all the empty cans and bottles laying around to the redemption site--after stopping to find out where one even was in this neighborhood and practicing your snarl in your reflection on his monitor to make sure nobody messed with you on your way there and back--and left the caegars on his table.

This actually got a reaction out of him. You couldn't help but feel smug when you sat back in your chair and watched the mustard text pour into your chat client laden with offense that you'd broken into his hive and not bothered with a single traditional pitch gesture. He scoffed when you told him this was black as it came, that you were disgusted at his inability to take care of himself and wanted to know how it felt to be shown up on such an elementary level. He replied asking if you intended to poison him then reflecting that the fresh food wasn't that bad, that the buzz was better from the expensive drinks. He drew the line at the money, though, and told you if you ever did that again the whole thing was off.

Lesson learned. Money's a touchy thing. But that meant the rest of it was green lighted as far as you cared. Instead of leaving money on the table, you used it to buy him other things. Laundry enzymes. Fang paste. The basics of self care that he so often neglected.

It became a weekly routine, then more than once a week. Then you started to wonder if he wasn't deliberately telling you when he'd be out of the hive to make sure you had chances to do this. Well, that wasn't going to fly, if he actually wanted this to happen.

Time for the pièce de résistance.

He wasn't surprised to find you in his hive but he was surprised by the bleach stain on your pants. He was speechless in the face of his spotless ablution block, just lifting one eyebrow and asking if you really didn't have anything better to do. You informed him, advancing on him so he backed into the bathroom and allowed you to shut the door behind you, that you had something far better to do.

Now, though, standing together in his shower, his breathing shallow and even, his posture full of unexpected trust, slumping back against you as your fingers work shampoo through hair that hasn't seen anything but bar soap in sweeps, you find yourself unable to brag that you're taking care of him because he's so horrible at it. That's been a convenient lie for a while. You'd expected much more hesitation from him about it but all you got was one snide remark before he relented and now here you are. Standing on the slick floor, you've never felt more secure.

He can't even take care of himself. You have to do it all for him. And you will.

Because you pity him that much.


End file.
